


Love Unexpected

by destimushi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Presents, Cas Is A Size Queen, Dean has a big dick, First Meetings, First Time, Librarian Dean Winchester, M/M, Pink Panties, Police Uniforms, Stripper Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:15:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14800649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: After spending his fortieth birthday alone, Dean Winchester just wants the day to be over. Little does he know a late night visit from a police officer will change his life forever.





	Love Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> This story came out of nowhere when Aceriee and I were shooting the shit, and here we are, 6 thousand words and three GORGEOUS pieces of art later. It's been a blast writing for the DeanCas Flip Fest run by the [#profoundbound Discord server](https://discordapp.com/invite/GGbw2NP). Come check us out if you're looking for a place to chill with other destiel shippers and spn fans!
> 
> Once again I've had the great pleasure to work with the wonder [Aceriee](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com). Her art is truly inspirational and everyone should go and give her some love! The art can be found [here on tumblr](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/flipfest18) and [here on AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721110)!
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay) for fixing the Olympic acrobatic couch scene xD!! This thing would be a mess without her.

“Are you Dean Winchester?”

Dean stares at the officer standing on his porch and his chest seizes. He adjusts his glasses and grips the front door with white knuckles. What does the police want with him? “I am.”

“I am Officer Angel.” The man flashes his badge too quickly for Dean to get a good look. “We received a distress call from you. Is everything all right?”

A distress call? Unless Dean called the police in his sleep at—he glances at the clock hanging in the hall behind him—eleven PM, he has no idea what the fuck is going on. “I’m sorry?”

“You are Dean Winchester, yes?”

“Yes, but I didn’t make any phone calls.” Annoyance swirls around him like the flurry of snowflakes blowing through the door. He doesn’t need this on a good night, and he definitely does not need it on his birthday. “Look, if you got a call, it wasn’t from me. Someone must’ve played a prank.”

“Regardless, I need to come in and take a look.” Officer Angel hooks his thumbs into his utility belt. “You don’t mind, do you?” He smirks and his bright blue eyes gleam with something Dean can’t quite read.

Dean nods and steps back. Officer Angel steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him, then strolls down the hall as if he owns the place. Dean follows, irritation adding to his already disappointing night. When his two best friends canceled on his birthday dinner and then his sister-in-law went into labour (okay, Dean won’t hold that against Sam and Eileen, but it doesn’t make it suck any less), Dean thought his big four-oh couldn’t get any worse. But life is just full of surprises, it seems.

“Officer, what exactly are you looking for?” Dean watches Officer Angel stroll through his living room, fingers tracing along the back of his couch.

“I am here to deliver a message.”

“Excuse me?” Something sour curdles in Dean’s gut and irritation makes way for fear.

The man in the dark blue uniform turns and smiles at Dean. It’s a slow curl of lips, a sultry, seductive thing, and something clicks for Dean just as the stranger says, “Charlie and Benny send their regards.”

The man who claims to be a police officer crowds into Dean’s personal space, standing so close Dean can smell his aftershave. Blue eyes drill into him, pin him to the spot. A challenge, one Dean’s unprepared for as he shifts between shock and disbelief.

The man seems to take Dean’s lack of protest as permission to do what he came here to do and grabs the front of Dean’s t-shirt, yanking him closer until their noses are a hair’s breadth away. Dean inhales, traps the air in his lungs, and he’s not sure whether to punch the guy or kiss him. Now that Dean’s sure he’s not getting arrested, and he’s sure _what_ this stranger is here for, he’s very aware of _Officer Angel_ ’s chiseled jawline, his straight nose, and the way those damn blue eyes sparkle with mischief.

Still, this doesn’t mean he’s down with a strange man dressed in a police uniform grinding against him in his living room.

Officer Angel pulls a small pink card from his belt and hands it to Dean. Their fingers brush, and Dean’s not sure what to make of the heat spreading along his arm and up his neck. He glances at the folded paper, then at the man shamelessly checking him out, before opening the card. The short message is in Charlie’s handwriting.

_Yo, Ben and I thought you could use a little more excitement in your life, so here’s your birthday present. Hope Sam didn’t get you too shit-faced to enjoy it! Remember, he’s just a dancer, so no funny business! xoxo Char._

Dean flips the card over as if looking for an explanation, but there are no answers printed on the back.

“So—” Dean jumps as Officer Angel breathes against his ear. The man had circled behind him while Dean was busy reading. “I take, by the look on your face, that you were not expecting...company.”

“No, I most definitely was not.” Dean swallows. “I’m sorry but you gotta leave.”

“Why?” Officer Angel—is Angel even his real name?—presses into Dean, his utility belt digging into the small of his back.

Dean hisses and sucks in a sharp breath. “Because—”

“I’m already paid for,” Officer Angel whispers into Dean’s ear, his rumbling voice low and husky. “All yours for the next hour.”

“Christ on a cracker. I don’t need a hooker—”

“I am not a hooker.”

“Then what are you?”

“Erotic dancer.”

“So, a stripper?”

Angel huffs and pulls away from Dean, then pushes past him to fiddle with Dean’s stereo system. “That is not very PC of you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says and scrubs a hand down his face. He’d call Charlie or Benny if it wasn’t so late. It would totally be within Dean’s rights, but he’s not a jackass...which is more than can be said about his friends. “I’m sure you’re very, uh, good at what you do, but—”

“You know, you are starting to hurt my feelings.” Angel faces Dean as a staccato of guitar riffs fills the air. “I already accepted the money, so I’m here to deliver the service. If, after one dance, you think I’m a waste of your friends’ hard earned cash, you can send me away and I’ll give them a refund.”

Before Dean can answer, Angel closes the distance between them and takes Dean’s hand. Dean lets himself be dragged to the couch and sinks into the cushions. He knows this is wrong, knows he should send the man away and give Charlie and Benny a tongue lashing first thing in the morning.

But he doesn’t.

The music expands until the whole room is alive with it. Officer Angel sheds his coat to reveal a navy blue short-sleeve shirt, buttons straining across his broad chest. The short sleeves pull taut around his bulging biceps, and his trousers are sinfully tight. Angel undulates to the thumping rhythm, his large hands roam up and down his thighs, and Dean forgets why he wanted to send the man away.

The dancer grins, a quick, arrogant twitch of lips that sets Dean’s heart drumming a wild beat. His palms are sweaty, and the thin cotton of his t-shirt and sleep pants are too warm and too rough against his skin. The scrape of a zipper cuts through the driving beat. Dean’s eyes dart to the junction of Angel’s thighs, and he swallows as a triangle of pink lace peaks through the opening of his pants.

The trousers hang on Angel’s hips just loose enough that Dean expects (hopes) they might fall with every sway of his hips. But they don’t, and Dean takes a shaky breath when Angel crosses the living room in slow, measured steps. His booted feet pick up in time with the music to eat the distance between them with predatory grace. Dean has never regretted his lack of a coffee table until now.

“So, Mr. Winchester,” Angel says as he straddles Dean’s lap. Dean startles, and his breath hitches. “I hear you’ve not been a very good friend.”

“What?”

“You skipped out on D&D last weekend and stood Benny up at the bar multiple times.”

Dean tries to focus on the words, but Angel’s voice is a sinful drip of whiskey and honey and heat pools in the pit of his stomach. The body in his lap twists and gyrates, and every time Angel’s arms pull overhead, his shirt strains around the buttons to reveal flashes of taunting skin.

“Mr. Winchester?”

 _Fuck._ “I—uh—“

Angel laughs, deep and throaty, and the vibration jars Dean to the bone. The music is too loud, Angel’s body too hard and too warm, and the smell of his aftershave too overwhelming. Dean grips the cushions and takes a few deep breaths, and he curses Charlie and Benny with every fiber of his being.

“You can touch, you know,” Angel purrs, then slips off Dean’s lap to turn and sit with his back to Dean. “I want you to touch me.”

Strong hands cover Dean’s and pry his fingers loose to give the abused leather cushions some reprieve. Carefully, as if Dean will break if he moves too fast, Angel brings Dean’s hands to the hem of his shirt and slips them beneath the starched fabric.

Angel’s skin is scorching, and when he moves once more—hips grinding in sensual circles against Dean’s crotch—supple muscles shift under Dean’s palms. Christ, this man is Dean’s wet dream come to life, with his arrogant smirk and his piercing blue eyes. With the wild flare in the sway of his hips and the way his body seems to melt against Dean.

Dean swallows again and moves his fingers up an inch. A hiss, and a hitched breath, and Dean grins despite himself as Angel shivers. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one affected, even if Angel’s job is literally to arouse people.

“You have nice hands, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Dean.”

Angel reaches back and runs explorative hands through Dean’s hair, his back arching as he pushes into Dean’s palms. It’s a silent plea, a wordless request Dean has no business understanding, yet he does, and his hands roam further up to find pert nipples straining against the fabric.

“Well, Dean,” Angel says. Dean likes the way his name rolls off that delightful tongue, likes the way it sounds soaked in that sensual purr. “I don’t normally do this, but, will you unbutton my shirt?”

“You want me to do your work for you?” Dean grins against the shell of an ear even as he’s pulling his hands out from under Angel’s top.

“I will give you a discount next time.”

Dean chuckles, his eyebrows raising. He’s not even sure what’s going on anymore, not sure about Angel, about what he’s asking Dean to do, about this whole shit show. But the man in Dean’s lap is so damn gorgeous, so damn _willing_ , and it’s been so damn long since anyone’s writhed in Dean’s lap, unafraid—

He groans, and for the first time tonight, realizes just how hard he is. His cock twitches along his inner thigh, straining against Angel’s ass, and Dean’s heart skips a beat before he reminds himself Angel’s just here to dance.

Dean shifts to try to lessen the pressure, but Angel has other ideas. He grinds down harder, his fingers pulling and threading through Dean’s hair with something a little more than mere acting. Or so Dean hopes. Not that he would know; he’s never had a lap dance before.

With infinite care, Dean threads the bottom button through the buttonhole, then moves up Angel’s body. When he finally reaches the top, Angel slips off his lap and turns on the balls of his feet to face Dean. He winks, then straddles Dean, his thick thighs trapping Dean in place, and Dean can’t help but salivate at the pink panties peeping through the open fly, the splash of vibrant colour a stark contrast to the dark material of Angel’s trousers.

“I definitely don’t do this with just anyone, but Christ on a cracker, I need to ask”—Angel cups Dean’s jaw—“can you get any more perfect?”

“Huh?”

“When I received the call and saw your picture I thought, I’d dance for him for free,” Angel continues as if oblivious to Dean’s confusion. “And then I get here, and you’re just fucking perfect with your librarian glasses and big green eyes, and then _this._ ”

Angel scoots back along Dean’s lap. Dean follows Angel’s wide-eyed gaze and jumps when he draws a finger over Dean’s sleep pants and along his straining erection. Even through the cotton, the touch is intimate, demanding, and it crosses into dangerous territories. “What exactly are you getting at?” Dean asks, but he doesn’t push Angel’s hand away.

“I’m breaking every rule in the book, but I want to have sex with you.” Angel wraps sure fingers around Dean’s cock, the heat of his palm seeping through Dean’s sleep pants like liquid fire. “More specifically, I want you to fuck me.”

“You’re joking, right? Did Charlie put you up to this?”

Something flashes in the thinning halos of Angel’s brilliant blue eyes, and his playfulness disappears, replaced by fierce sincerity. “I do not joke about these kinds of things, _Dean._ ”

Dean can think of a million reasons why this is a horrible idea, but he’s not sure if it’s the way Angel hissed his name, the grip he’s got on Dean’s cock, or simple loneliness that drives him to voice exactly none of them. Instead, he stares into the depths of Angel’s eyes and finds himself reflected there, his own lustful gaze mirroring Angel’s.

“Okay, fuck”—Dean covers Angel’s hand with his and squeezes—“I gotta warn you, I’m not—it’s not exactly—”

“Okay, I don’t want you to think I don’t find the rest of you attractive,” Angel cuts him off with a chuckle, “and I am sure you have a lovely personality, but you’re hung like a fucking horse, and that’s what I _want._ ”

Dean blinks, stunned by the blunt words as much as the seriousness in Angel’s eyes. This has got to be a dream. Perhaps his subconscious is still savouring the porn he jerked off to before bed. Because no way in hell would someone as gorgeous as Angel—

Warm lips press against his, soft but firm, and the kiss is sensual yet raw around the edges. Dean’s mind grinds to a halt, thought and reasoning dissipating like smoke in a wind storm as he slips under the gentle caress of Angel’s lips. The kiss deepens. Angel presses close, hard body a lithe line molded to Dean’s chest, and it fuels Dean’s desires like a gust of wind to a rampant wildfire.   

Dean whimpers; it echoes like a plea. Angel smiles against his lips, his hands carding through Dean’s hair to rest against the back of his head. Dean needs no further urging as he throws caution to the wind. If this...this walking wet dream of a man wants Dean, who is he to deny either of them that pleasure?

With renewed resolve, Dean wraps his arms around Angel’s torso, his hands roaming along Angel’s back, mapping out the swell of his shoulder blades and the dip of his spine. Mapping out every shift of muscle and every inch of clothed flesh, hungry for more.

Angel pulls back, kiss-swollen lips glistening in the dim light, and grins. “I take it you’re accepting my proposal?”

“I guess I am.”

Angel slips off Dean’s lap and steps away from the couch. The lamp casts the room in soft, buttery light, and that light is a halo around Angel’s body as he sways to the music. Slowly, his eyes locked on Dean’s, he shrugs. One shoulder, then the other, and his shirt slips off to reveal smooth, supple skin.

The music wraps around them, blankets them in a world that belongs to just the two of them. Angel runs nimble fingers down his naked chest, nails catching on the ridge of well defined abs as he travels lower. And lower. And lower, until his thumbs catch in the waistband of his trousers.

“I love the way your eyes undress me,” he says.

Dean swallows, takes a moment to find his brain and locate his tongue. “Fuck, you’re so fucking beautiful.”

Angel blushes, the flush of colour travelling down his navel, and the sight of it leaves Dean aching with something besides arousal. Huh.

“Do you say that to all the boys who dance for you?”

“I guess so”—Dean shrugs—“considering you’re the only boy who’s ever danced for me.”

Angel laughs, and he loses some of that sharpness around his jaw. God, Dean thought the man was gorgeous half naked and undulating to classic rock, but he’s breathtaking when his face splits in a blinding smile. Breathtaking when his stunning blue eyes turn into slits as the corners crinkle in laughter.           

_Shit. Get it together, Winchester._

Dean scrubs a hand down his face and takes a deep breath. The last time he was this turned on, this drawn to someone, he was met with devastation and disappointment. Sure, Angel _says_ he wants Dean’s “horse dick,” but he hasn’t seen it, hasn’t had a chance to really take in what he’s getting himself into.

He looks down at his lap, stares at the straining outline of his cock—the tip already leaking a puddle against his thigh and through his cotton pants—and sighs. He shouldn’t get his hopes up like this, shouldn’t get so excited lest Angel wants to back out once he gets a good look at it. Dean wouldn’t hold it against him, but that doesn’t mean it won’t suck.

“Hey, eyes on me, tiger.” Angel’s voice draws Dean away from his spiralling thoughts, and when Dean looks back up at the man occupying all of his personal space, his mouth dries up faster than a vampire in sunlight.

Angel’s lost his pants during Dean’s wallowing, and his utility belt hangs low on his hips. The sheer, pink panties fight a losing battle as they strain to contain Angel’s obvious arousal. Dean attempts to swallow, fails, and tries again before remembering to breathe.

“Holy shit.”

“Like what you see, big boy?” Angel smirks and saunters over to Dean.

Up close, Dean can just make out Angel’s clean-shaven balls and the darkened spot on his panties. God, he’s not going to live through tonight. Or perhaps, he’s already died and gone to heaven. He tries to speak, but despite his scholarly background and fifteen years working as a librarian, Dean’s lost the ability to use language. Instead, he nods, and his fingers long to touch those thighs hovering just out of reach.

“You can touch, remember?” Angel closes the distance between them and slots between Dean’s spread thighs. He drops to his knees, his bare chest rising and falling with each breath as he reaches for Dean’s hands.

Dean lets himself be guided, lets himself be given the gift of Angel’s soft skin and solid muscles beneath his hands. Angel reaches for the tie on Dean’s sleep pants and pulls the string loose with a wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re hard.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.” Dean rolls his eyes and roams his hands through Angel’s hair, savoring the softness.

“No, I mean, you are _really_ hard.” Angel leans forward and kisses the contour of Dean’s cock through his pants.

Dean hisses, his hips popping off the couch, and his fingers tighten around fistfuls of hair. “God…”

“I want to...may I?” Angel looks up through thick eyelashes. In that moment, Dean would give Angel the moon and the stars if he so much as asked.

Dean nods and swallows as a fresh wave of trepidation threatens to drag him under. What if Angel freaks out when he sees it? What if he looks up at Dean with those big blue eyes and tell him it was a mistake? What if—

Angel gasps and sits back on his heels. When did he get Dean’s pants down his hips? Dean freezes, every inch of skin buzzing with apprehension, every cell of his body thrumming with dread. This is it. This is the moment Dean is terrified of. Awe, then judgement, then an apologetic smile before Angel gets up and tells Dean he’s got to go.

“Whao.” Angel marvels as he leans in closer, one hand hovering along Dean’s inner thigh, fingers twitching but not touching. “It looked big in your pants, but this is—”

“You don’t have to,” Dean blurts. Heat consumes him, suffocates him like smoke and burns him like fire.

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, I know it’s...big. And you’re not the first to see it and back out and—” Dean takes a deep breath and tries to calm the trembling in his fingers. “It’s all right.”

“Dean, look at me,” Angel says, his voice low and dangerous. “I don’t care what other people did. They obviously don’t know a gift when they have been presented one.”

Before Dean realizes what’s happening, Angel leans over and kisses the head of Dean’s cock. It’s a gentle kiss, chaste despite everything, and it grounds Dean. Beyond the arousal in Angel’s eyes, there’s excitement, uncertainty, and acceptance. Dean swallows the lump in his throat and takes a long, slow breath.

“If you’re sure…”

“ _I’m_ the professional stripper here and _I’m_ telling you _I want this._ ”

“I thought stripper isn’t very PC.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Yes, please.”

Angel blinks, eyes so blue they’re electrifying, then he laughs again in that way Dean finds endearing. Dean smiles, and the ice in his gut melts into a pool of desire. Fuck, he will not fall for Angel. For all he knows, Angel isn’t even his real name. But, damned if Dean isn’t already drawn to Angel’s charismatic laughter and the sinful gleam in his eyes. The sensual way his body weaves through music and the way he makes Dean feel _wanted_.

Before Dean can get maudlin, Angel loosens his tie and gives it a tug as if inviting Dean to yank on it as he pleases. It’s hard to think about anything after that as Angel shuffles closer and nuzzles his cheek against the shaft of Dean’s cock. He’s so hard, so incredibly turned on that even the softest graze of skin jolts up his dick and spreads like shocks along his skin.

_Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“I want to taste you,” Angel says as he brings both hands to cup Dean’s balls and stroke up the shaft. “Then I want you to bend me over this couch and split me in half with your dick.”

“Christ,” Dean huffs.

“Oh, and”—Angel flicks his tongue against the slit—“my name is Castiel, but you can call me Cas.”

Dean wants to respond, he really does, but all thought evaporates when heat envelops his cock. Angel—no–-Cas’ mouth is wet and hot and so fucking enthusiastic, and Dean is lost to the rhythmic slide of Cas’ lips and tongue along the shaft. Up, down, and a swirl. Dean fights the urge to thrust, wants to push his cock as far down Cas’ throat as possible, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t want to hurt Cas even if Cas wants to be hurt.

The song stops, and the next one starts. Dean sinks into the couch as Cas gags on the head of his cock despite both his hands wrapped around the shaft. The sound is a testament to Cas’ dedication, and it’s arousing as fuck.

Dean leans back and enjoys the wet heat of Cas’ mouth and the fierce grip of his hands. It’s been so long since someone saw Dean’s cock and didn’t run away screaming, and no one has ever worshipped it the way Cas is right now. Dean stares mesmerized at the stretch of Cas’ lips around his cock—wet and obscene and devastatingly gorgeous.     

Cas works his magic along Dean’s cock, and Dean forgets for a moment what Cas wants from him. Perhaps Cas will be happy with just this, then Dean won’t have to embarrass himself, because there’s no way someone as hot as Cas is a virgin. Unlike Dean.

 _Oh God._ The air in his lungs freeze, and Dean doesn’t realize he’s got a death grip around fistfuls of Cas’ hair until Cas pulls off with a wince.

“Hey, hey, Dean, what’s going on?” Cas reaches up and covers Dean’s hands with his wet fingers.

Dean blinks, mortified, and wishes like crazy the floor would open and swallow him whole. What has he done? Now there’s no way he can not come clean. God, why is he such a fuck up he can’t even do a one-night stand right?

Cas stares at him, eyes wide and glistening, concern etched in the lines around the corners of his mouth.

“I…” Dean swallows and pulls his hands back, curling them into fists and laying them on his thighs. “I…” He blinks back the sour sting behind his eyes. _You will not cry over this._  

“Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

Maybe it’s the way Cas squeezes his knee, gentle and reassuring, or maybe it’s the way he leans into Dean, as if offering comfort and support. Dean takes a deep breath, holds the air until his lungs are fit to burst, then deflates before he says, “I’ve never done this before.”

The song chooses this moment to end, and between its last dying note and the start of the next song, the room basks in suffocating silence. Cas’ eyes widen, his expression alien to Dean and therefore undecipherable.

A pinned butterfly, laid out on full display. This must be what that feels like. Dean wants to send Cas away, sweep this whole stupid night under the rug and never, ever speak of it again. But he’s frozen in place, his fragile ego held in the hands of a complete stranger, a stranger with the power to crush and destroy him with ease. Dean gave him that power. Christ, just how stupid and desperate is he? Whatever comes next, Dean deserves it. All of it.

“You serious?” Cas murmurs, his voice tentative and incredulous.

Dean nods.

“How?”

Dean blinks. That is not what he expected. “Um, no one wanted to touch it once they saw how big it is?”

“They’re idiots. All of them.” Cas’ jaw twitches and something flashes in his eyes that sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. “They didn’t even try.”

“Actually, I’m the one who stopped trying.” Dean shrugs and wets his lips. “When I was younger, I chalked it up to the girls being younger too and not knowing what to do. But as I got older, and both men and women ran screaming for the hills after I dropped my pants, I decided it was just too much of a hassle.”

The next song starts, this one with heavy guitars and a driving drum beat, and it seems to reflect the urgency in Cas’ movements as he springs off the floor and onto his feet. Without a word, Cas turns around and picks up his pants. Dean’s heart sinks. However, instead of putting them on and leaving, Cas digs around in the back pocket and comes out with a small packet of lube and a sheet of paper.

“All I have is a regular sized condom. It will not fit you. I get tested regularly with the agency and happen to have my latest papers with me.” Cas hands Dean the folded sheet. “I...I don’t know why I do, but I trust you when you say this is your first time. I still want you to fuck me, but I can understand if you have reservations—”

“Let’s do it.” The words hang between them as the music marches on. Dean throws the paper behind him, still folded. He trusts Cas, probably for the same reasons Cas trusts him. They’re strangers, yet it’s as if their souls have known each other for as long as the birth of the first star. It’s unreasonable, ridiculous, and yet, it feels right.

Cas rushes into his arms, slips his own around Dean’s neck, and they’re kissing as if it’s the first and last time they’ll ever kiss. Cas devours Dean’s mouth with hungry strokes of tongue, and Dean wants to crawl between Cas’ lips and stay there. Cas pulls Dean against him, then twists and falls onto the couch with a huff and a squeal of leather. He sinks into the leather cushions, his teeth pulling on Dean’s bottom lip as he squirms beneath Dean.

Dean wants to stay drunk on the taste of Cas’ mouth forever, but the need for oxygen wins eventually, and Dean rears back, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Cas grins and presses the packet of lube into Dean’s hand, then shoves Dean off him before rolling around and getting on his hands and knees.

_Christ._

Dean swallows at the sight of Cas’ lace-clad ass, the globes of his butt cheeks round and inviting like a ripe peach. Cas parts his legs, pulls the panties to the side, and wiggles against Dean’s thigh. “Just, it’s been a while. Go slow, okay?”

“Y-yeah, baby, promise,” Dean croaks. He runs one finger along the edge of Cas’ pink hole, the muscle quivering. With cold or anticipation, Dean doesn't know, but when he drags one fingernail across the sensitive ring, Cas groans.

With infinite care, and more patience Dean thought he possessed, he opens Cas up. One finger, two, then three, and when he fits his pinky into the heat of Cas’ body, they both shiver.

“F-fuck, Dean—” Cas squirms, his thighs shaking, his skin glistening with a sheen of sweat. At some point, Cas has dropped to his chest, pushing his ass higher into the air, giving himself up for Dean to do with as he pleases. The utility belt slides down Cas’ torso and the handcuff chains clink with Cas’ every heaving breath.  

“Want more?” Dean asks with a gentle thrust. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Christ, l-lets leave fisting for next time,” Cas gasps into the couch cushion. “Want to feel you—your cock.”

Dean chuckles and spreads his fingers a little, and the sweet hiss of hitched breath sends jolts of pleasure straight to his cock. He’s so hard he’s dizzy, and his dick has been leaking since before he stuck the first finger into Cas’ tight heat. Dean thrusts his fingers a few more times, twisting his hand this way and that until he’s satisfied Cas is thoroughly relaxed and ready.

The couch dips as Dean kneels behind Cas, one foot planted on the floor. He lathers his cock with ample lube, smears the head and pre-come around Cas’ hole, then leans forward. Despite his careful preparation, Cas’ body resists the intrusion. Dean pushes, applying gentle pressure, and just when he thinks this isn’t going to happen, Cas opens up.

Light explodes behind his eyes, and Dean gasps as the head of his cock snugs inside Cas. It’s tight and slick and the heat. Oh the heat. It’s too much, too overwhelming, too stimulating, and he’s going to pass out.

Cas’ breathless cry brings Dean back to earth, his thighs trembling so hard Dean’s surprised he hasn’t collapsed. “Oh my god, you’re m-massive,” Cas chokes into a fist and draws a thin breath as if his lungs have stopped working.

“Shit—I’m sorry. Am I hurting you?” Dean pulls back, but Cas’ hand darts out and grabs at his thigh.

“Don’t you fucking dare. Give it to me. All of it.”

“You sure?”

“Ask me one more time and I _will_ kick your ass when we’re done,” Cas grits and shoots Dean a dirty glare over his shoulder. Except, his eyes are glassy, and the look is more pleading than menacing.

Dean swallows a chuckle and pushes forward, and his cock sinks into Cas inch by agonizing inch. Until he’s buried to the hilt and they’re both panting. Dean stares down the plane of Cas’ body, stares in disbelief that his cock has fully disappeared inside Cas without resistance, and Cas _likes_ it. His hips stuttering as if he wants _more_.

It’s insane, and it’s hot as hell.

Dean holds still, his fingers digging into Cas’ hips, nails biting into soft flesh, and it’s another few erratic heart beats before Cas cants his hips, urging Dean to move. The first pull sends fireworks exploding behind Dean’s eyes, and the rest of it is a blur of limbs and sweaty skin and Cas shouting incoherently into the couch as Dean drills into him.

The slide of Cas’ hole is nothing like Dean has ever imagined, and every slick thrust feels phenomenal. But Dean’s as much lost in Cas’ quivering body as he is in his own pleasures. The way Cas trembles, his knees shifting on the leather couch, his arms pushing against the armrest, his mouth hanging slack as he cries out with every thrust. The way his body pushes back against Dean as if its got a mind of its own, as if Cas wants to suck Dean into him so their separate bodies can become one.

As if Cas wants to claim Dean as much as Dean wants to be claimed. To belong. To fit into someone’s life like he fits into Cas’ body right now. It’s a thought Dean’s given up on, and it punches through him with the force of a hurricane just how much he _wants_ that.

Suddenly, Dean wants to see everything. Wants to see Cas come undone. Wants to see himself reflected in Cas’ eyes as he loses himself in Cas’ body. “Baby, I want to—need to—”

As if reading Dean’s thoughts, Cas pulls off his cock, and they both hiss at the loss of each other as Cas twists onto his back. He spreads his legs, grins at Dean, and wraps one large hand around his own leaking erection as he waits for Dean to sink back into him.

Cas’ face as Dean plunges back in is a sight he will never forget. Pain, pleasure, desire, so much desire, and a driving _need_ so raw it shocks Dean to the core. Fuck, he’s not going to last watching Cas writhe and moan, not going to last watching the blur of Cas’ fist as he himself chases the elusive white rabbit down the rabbit hole.

When they come undone, it’s to the sound of each other’s ragged breathing. Dean tries to pull away, but Cas drags Dean’s limp body on top of him. They lay there, wrapped up in each other, panting away the aftershock of their love-making one laboured breath at a time.     

“That was—”

“Amazing,” Cas finishes Dean’s thought.

“Yes.”

They lapse into silence, and Dean shifts until he’s tucked into Cas’ side. Cas’ come chills his skin, but Dean’s too boneless to move.

“I’m really sorry if I was out of line.” Cas breaks the silence with tentative fingers. Maybe Cas isn’t as confident as he appears.

“It...certainly wasn’t what I expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Not having a fake police officer show up at my house,” Dean says into Cas’ chest. “Definitely not...this.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Dean doesn’t have to look at Cas’ face to know the man is as nervous and unsure about all this as Dean is. But for the first time in a long time, Dean knows what he wants, and he’s not afraid to reach out with both hands and clutch it to his chest. “No. Stay.”

“For the whole night?”

“Well, if you’ve got nothing planned tomorrow, I’d like to take you out on a date.” Dean glances up to find blue eyes trained on him.

“I’d—” Cas clears his throat and looks away, but the corners of his lips twitch into a timid smile. “I would like that. Very much.”

“Good. Now, we should get cleaned up and into bed.” Dean pushes off the couch and rolls over Cas to land on his feet. He holds out a hand and pulls Cas upright.

Cas takes a tentative step and winces, and they both burst out laughing. They walk—rather Dean walks and Cas hobbles—down the hall and into the bathroom. The shower is hot, and Cas’ hands on Dean’s skin are relaxing as they scrub each other clean in silence.

Clean and warm and sated, Dean crawls into bed, and Cas curls up against his side. When Dean woke up that morning, he never expected his fortieth birthday to end with a stranger in his bed. He glances at Cas snuggled up against him, and he relishes in the warmth of his skin, in the butterfly kisses of his eyelashes.

Perhaps this is a bad idea, but Dean is ready for a change, and he’s sure that change starts right here, in this moment with this man. If things do work out, he might even rethink his plan to murder Charlie and Benny in their sleep.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Novak. My last name is Novak.”

Dean smiles into the dark. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Novak.”


End file.
